The noc

The winds were howling, the moon burning brightly over the hamlet. A half-set sun could be seen within sight of subtle moonlight. The yon stars lowered with the galactic and violent skies. They could be traced almost thru cobwebs of suspicious ghouls and monsters from the Firmaments. The wind in itself was shockingly tepid, but O, from the ocean near-about, the air still tasted salty.

George, the fishing lord was returning from his day at work and his wife had been cooking and cleaning and missing him.

“Hey, dear,” Pamela said, suggestively. She had gone to full extremes to match this warm cardigan with her shoelaces, something she changed depending usually on what remained new in the house.

“Hey, darling,” George said.

She took his fisherman’s vest and hung it above the cloak compartment. Pamela already knew she didn’t feel like talking much, and she went to get two drinks, a longish one for George, a sweet cocktail for herself; and they both fast fell asleep on the daybed.

George stirred in his sleep, waking up his wife.

“l’m exhausted. Let’s get to the bedroom. What woke you—“ Pamela was about to continue when she heard mighty peals of thunder and began to worry about their tiny, little house.

The door sounded a knocking, a timid sound from the front. Something could have been scratching.

“l’ll get it,” George lept to his feet, like an old man, thought his wife, worriedly. So old that one day soon, the children having left us alone won’t be all we should’ve mourned together. Maybe we should be sane, Pamela thought before grabbing a cloak. The cape was something she adored, seeing as she always got COMPLlMENTS with it draped around her neck.

She was looking at him while he tripped and stumbled into a calm array of black holes.

Suddenly, there seemed to be the strangest lighting and all these people in their cold-lit tavern. She found her drink and ignored everything around her, thinking it was a dream. Everything seemed to her as if she was blinded by the stymieing haze of a dream.

George came back from answering the door, some hours later, albeit winded and free, as he was not holding this vessel tight enough.

“George, are you alright? ls that you?” Pamela shrieked, while hopping to her feet. She felt embarrassed, as there was mood music playing.

“Sit down,” she requested him absentmindedly, feeling almost deaf.

He refused to listen and began to pack his cigar bundles when there was another timid knocking at the door.

Pamela opened the door, something subtle like Wisdom deepening in her voice.

“Who’s there!” she demanded to know.

lt was just a storm knocking and knocking and knocking, so don’t knock at my door.

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The winds were howling, the moon burning brightly over the hamlet. A half-set sun could be seen within sight of subtle moonlight. The yon stars lowered with the galactic and violent skies. They could be traced almost thru cobwebs of suspicious ghouls and monsters from the Firmaments. The wind in itself was shockingly tepid, but O, from the ocean near-about, the air still tasted salty.

George, the fishing lord was returning from his day at work and his wife had been cooking and cleaning and missing him.

“Hey, dear,” Pamela said, suggestively. She had gone to full extremes to match this warm cardigan with her shoelaces, something she changed depending usually on what remained new in the house.

“Hey, darling,” George said.

She took his fisherman’s vest and hung it above the cloak compartment. Pamela already knew she didn’t feel like talking much, and she went to get two drinks, a longish one for George, a sweet cocktail for herself; and they both fast fell asleep on the daybed.

George stirred in his sleep, waking up his wife.

“l’m exhausted. Let’s get to the bedroom. What woke you—“ Pamela was about to continue when she heard mighty peals of thunder and began to worry about their tiny, little house.

The door sounded a knocking, a timid sound from the front. Something could have been scratching.

“l’ll get it,” George lept to his feet, like an old man, thought his wife, worriedly. So old that one day soon, the children having left us alone won’t be all we should’ve mourned together. Maybe we should be sane, Pamela thought before grabbing a cloak. The cape was something she adored, seeing as she always got COMPLlMENTS with it draped around her neck.

She was looking at him while he tripped and stumbled into a calm array of black holes.

Suddenly, there seemed to be the strangest lighting and all these people in their cold-lit tavern. She found her drink and ignored everything around her, thinking it was a dream. Everything seemed to her as if she was blinded by the stymieing haze of a dream.

George came back from answering the door, some hours later, albeit winded and free, as he was not holding this vessel tight enough.

“George, are you alright? ls that you?” Pamela shrieked, while hopping to her feet. She felt embarrassed, as there was mood music playing.

“Sit down,” she requested him absentmindedly, feeling almost deaf.

He refused to listen and began to pack his cigar bundles when there was another timid knocking at the door.

Pamela opened the door, something subtle like Wisdom deepening in her voice.

“Who’s there!” she demanded to know.

lt was just a storm knocking and knocking and knocking, so don’t knock at my door.